


Sunday Sinday

by medusa_ix



Series: priest!bucky [3]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, F/M, Priest Kink, Priests, Sex in Church, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26838685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusa_ix/pseuds/medusa_ix
Summary: Father James preaches Mass on Sunday, and you think there's no better day to sin.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: priest!bucky [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957699
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Sunday Sinday

**Author's Note:**

> posted on my tumblr too @navegandoaciegas

Wide shoulders straining his black cassock, long chestnut hair pulled back, errant strands framing his chiselled face, thick rimmed glasses perched on top of his nose, Father James should be the depiction of all that’s holy, image and likeness of God himself, and instead he’s temptation in the flesh, and all you can think about as you do the sign of the cross and sit in the back pew is how much you want to do wrong with him.

“I confess to Almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do.”

His soft voice fills the room, subtle blush on his cheeks, the memory of all your shared sins in the fleeting looks he sends your way. His impure fantasies of you on your knees, your pretty lips around his cock, you taking his virginity of the altar, fucking under the cross, in the confessional, the filthy whispers in your ears, words he never imagined would come out of his mouth, the taste of you lingering on his tongue. He never stood a chance against temptation, not if you’re the one luring him straight to Hell. 

You tune out of his sermon, merely standing, sitting, and kneeling as you see the others do: there’s the column he stood against as you blew him off, the bench he bent you over and spanked you for the first time, the backdoor where the cleaning lady almost caught you.

“We listen to a reading from the New Testament.” he announces, clears his throat, adjusts his glasses, and opens the Holy Bible, fingers scanning over the verses he knows by heart.

There’s guilt in preaching what he doesn’t practice, but there’s also that exhilarating feeling of omnipotence that comes with being in love, that rush of adrenaline of loving in secret and doing the impossible to not get caught whilst wishing you would be.

The devoted churchgoers sitting in the front rows are too absorbed to notice you, hanging onto every word he recites, and the rest of the benches are empty, the saints and cherubs on the walls and Jesus on the cross your only witnesses as you quickly slip out of your panties and spread your legs, waiting for him to notice you, a teasing smile finding its way on your lips. 

“ If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we-”

He looks up from the pages, and his eyes meet you, or more likely what’s between your legs. He stutters, John or Matthew’s verses escaping his mind, “If we- we, uh, confess, we confess, yes, our sins- uh.” 

Silence. Awkward, tense silence.

The white collar around his neck is suddenly too stiff and suffocating. Father James is like a deer caught in the headlights, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as his eyes flit around the room. The blush on his cheeks betrays his sinful thoughts, and he can only hope, as he gapes in front of his audience, that they won’t notice the tent in his cassock, the sweat on his forehead, his heaving chest and the light fog forming in his glasses.

Whispers arise, ‘is Father James alright?’, the good, righteous churchgoes ask among themselves, worried about their beloved priest. 

“As I was saying.” he clears his throat after a strangled apology, his fingertips finding the verse he was reading again, “If we say we have not sinned-”

His voice is a low buzz as he resumes his sermon, tension clear in his taut muscles and dry mouth; memories of all the times he’s taken you on these wooden benches invade your minds. All the times you’ve choked him with the cross around his neck, all those he’s spent on his knees, worshipping you like a goddess.

His pure soul you’ve tarnished with yours, the filthy words that sound so right on his holy mouth, his heady taste on your tongue when you swallow him whole, your wish to ruin him.

Your walls throb, arousal pooling at your entrance and rubbing on the fabric of your skirt as you grind your core on the bench, desperate for some sort of release.

He raises the chalice. “...It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.” 

You were never one for good decisions, especially not when your brain is as fogged as his glasses. And there’s no better day to sin than Sunday, afterall.

You slip a finger inside your glistening folds, looking at him through lidded eyes, wishing he would be fucking you against the altar instead. Father James’ eyes go wide as saucers when he catches sight of you playing with your dripping pussy under your skirt, and he chokes on his wine, sputtering and coughing. 

You close your legs and bite your lips when someone walks up to him and pats his back to help him through his fit. He glares at you, and you stifle a laugh, the scene too comical to keep quiet.

“Forgive me.” he stutters to the small crowd, worry evident in their eyes, “It went down the wrong way.” he tries to ease the tension , “We can begin the communion rite now, if I don’t choke before.” and earns himself a collective chuckle.

The walk from the back to the front of the church seems endless. Thighs rubbing together and against your folds, a light breeze from an open door blows up your skirt just slightly, but enough that if someone were to pay attention, they’d see you’re not wearing any panties. 

You’re the last of the line, and by the time you get to him, the rest of the people are kneeling, their head bowed, oblivious to the tension between their good priest and the new girl in town.

“The Body of Christ.”

It’s a whisper, soft and intimate, meant for you and only you, the blue of his eyes swallowed by darkness when you part you lips wide open and stick your tongue out, a sight he’s seen countless times before, when you’re on your knees begging him to fuck your mouth. Air stills when your tongue brushes against his trembling fingertips, a shiver running down his spine, a groan almost escaping him because of what that damn tongue is capable of. Eyes locked together as you slowly chew, his gaze following the lump of your throat as you swallow.

“Amen.”

It’s lust, it’s sin, it’s wrong but it sure feels right. 

He watches your hips sway as you walk back to your seat, knowing your pussy is bare and wet for him beneath your skirt, and he can’t wait for mass to be over.

  
  


-

Incense is thick in the air, and a shiver runs down your spine when you feel his presence. A hand pulls your shirt and shoves you behind one of the columns to the sides where you usually wait for your sweet boy after mass. The marble is cold against your back, his hold like a vice on your flesh, and it stirs up something inside you. He’s never touched you like this, not your shy, doe eyed James, with his tentative kisses and trembling hands.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he whispers harshly, lips hovering over yours.

A gasp, you feign surprise. “Since when do you use that language? You kiss the cross with those lips?” 

“You're a bad influence.” he chuckles, “Anyone could have seen.”

“But no one did.” you retort “And that’s the fun part, baby boy.”

His fingers will leave bruises behind, you muse, as you take in the fire in his eyes and his body towering over yours. Your recklessness, your attitude, your pretty face, his lack of restraint, the way he can never resist you, his body that acts on its own, the animal instinct that snaps inside him when his hips thrust against yours and his hard cock presses on your stomach.

“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?” 

Your tongue finds its way from his neck to the shell of his ears, leaving goosebumps behind, “Can you imagine the scandal?”

“You’re such a brat.” is his strangled response as his hips roll against you, pinning you to the wall. His breathing is ragged, his jaw clenched.

“I am a brat Father, do you think you can forgive me for that?” you purr, a hand sneaking between you and palming his aching cock through his cassock.

“I don’t know, angel.” he mumbles in your hair, a thick thigh coming between yours. “You need to repent, and then atone.”

“How can I do that, Father? I want it so, so bad.” 

Your skin is scorching hot, your head dizzy as his smell clings to you and intoxicates you. 

In a blur you find yourself spun around, the marble digging painfully in your cheeks, his hand groping your ass and kneading the flesh to the point that it hurts. A whimper escapes your mouth when he slowly grazes your things up to your aching core, and he cups your pussy with a possessive hold.

“You’re so wet, all for me?”

It’s a soft whisper, a stupid question maybe. 

“Only for you.”

He peppers your neck with small kisses, nipping your delicate skin. Your walls flutter around nothing, you’re desperate to feel him inside you, his thick cock filling you like no else’s can.

Father James was never a patient man.

His fingers swirl around your swollen clit, and you’re pretty sure there’s slick running down your thighs. The pressure in your cunt is almost painful as you wait for him to lift his cassock and free himself.

“Tell me you’re mine.” 

It’s a low vibration grunted in your ear as he strokes his length and lines himself with your entrance, his tip smearing your arousal around.

“I’m yours.”

He slams his cock inside you, and you mewl when he fully sheats himself. He sets a low pace, taking his time to slide in and out of your, revelling in the way your walls grip him so tight. 

“More.” 

You’re not begging, you swear. You’re merely requesting. A command, really.

“You must say your penance first, sweetheart.” he taunts you, his wicked self coming out the more time he spends between your legs, and you find out you’re not so different after all. “An Act of Contrition, princess.”

You feel your pussy clench down on his cock, the coil getting tighter with each gentle stroke. Your mind is swirling, and you desperately cling onto the last rationality you’ve got left to remember your prayer. 

“My God.” you snarl when his hand pulls your hair, and you arch your back, this new position allowing his tip to reach the sweet spot inside you, “My God, I’m sorry for my- my sins” you moan, “with all my heart.”

He fastens his pace, the depravity of this all edging him closer to his release with each sweet sound you make. “Are you really?”

“Yes, yes, oh my God. I’m sorry , in choosing to do wrong and failing to do good,” you pant, tears streaming down your face, your breaths ragged, “I have sinned against you, whom I should-.” You’re sobbing, your hands clutching his shoulders for dear life, the sound of his balls slapping against your pussy so lewd as it resonates in the empty walls.

“Just like that, don’t stop, please.” you mewl, feeling the knot in your core about to unravel, your vision getting spotty around the edges.

You pull on his collar and tug him down, biting his lips, your tongue tasting his, his plush lips against yours, his hand around your neck. A harsh snap of his hips, one last look at the statue of a crying angel above you, and you come on his cock, your walls so tight around him that he follows shortly after, his cock swelling inside you and filling you to the brim with his cum. Your limbs jerk uncontrollably, your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

His hot breath fans over your neck, his strong arms hold you flush against his chest.

“Am I forgiven, Father?”

The rumble in his chest as he snickers warms your heart more than it should.

“I’m sorry, princess, you didn’t finish your prayers. Looks like we’re gonna have to do this all over again.”

God, you love Sundays.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave some feedback, it makes me very happy :)  
> read more priest bucky on my page


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